


Bringing Hell in a Dress

by thegirlthatisclumsy



Series: The Huntress [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, always a girl Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlthatisclumsy/pseuds/thegirlthatisclumsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1977, Jennifer Barton (nee Clinton) gave birth to her second child.  Francis Clinton Barton was born and her father threw away the It's A Boy cigars and walked out of the delivery room to head to the closest bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you're in my headlights

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Story and chapter titles are from The Echoing Green's The Huntress. Schuyler should get dual parental responsibilities for this fic as she's the one I bugged with, “So, I was thinking about a girl!Hawkeye” and she listened to me babble and helped me work out dialogue and characterization and basically let me whine at her about it. She also helped copy edit this thing. It was supposed to be this short funny fluffy piece and... then it wasn't? Also, big big big thanks to my beta siryn who loves all things Hawkeye. Thanks also to eleanorlavish, for basically waving hands and cheerleading and being all around awesome.

In 1977, Jennifer Barton (nee Clinton) gave birth to her second child. Francis Clinton Barton was born and her father threw away the It's A Boy cigars and walked out of the delivery room to head to the closest bar. She screamed out her first sounds into the world while her mother hugged her tight, swaddled in pink blankets and apologies.

+

“Cissy, come on!”

“Shut up, Barney!”

Francis Barton was twelve years old and smarter than her older brother. She loved the idiot, but he wasn't the best big brother. Her fingers were smaller so it was her hand in the guts of the car they were trying to boost. Barney kept look out and she tried to twist the wires the way that Freddy Collins had told her. The car sputtered to life and Barney whooped. He shoved her over and they were off.

Barney's hand was tight on hers.

They were both covered in bruises from belts and boots, but they were together and that was enough.

If she mumbled in her sleep about missing her mama, neither of them mentioned it.

Barney just gripped her hand tighter.

+

Clint got her first tattoo when she was fifteen. She was three years into her apprenticeship with the Swordsman and she'd just turned down the offer to pay for her lessons with her body. Instead, she traded her virgin blood for a tattoo on her shoulder. The hawk's wing cradled the ridge of bone and muscle, now defined with more strength than it had in the years previous, and curved inward toward her spine. The hawk's eyes were the same shade as hers.

If the straps of her bra rubbed against the linework and made them bleed the next day, she uttered no sound.

She bled again in a dusty field a few weeks later after she refused another of the Swordsman's proposals.

She wasn't a criminal and she didn't want his dirty money. Or his dirty hands on her.

She traded Francis for Clint (because if she was going to have the namesake of a warrior bird then she was going to have the name of a Western hero) and didn't feel any pain in the change.

She traded mentors for the price of a now more scarred body and the loss of her brother's affection. Trickshot honed her skills and Hawkeye found her spotlight.

He wanted her bow, arrows, and eye and would take her body if she offered.

She only offered the first three and never the last.

+

Her second tattoo is a chrysanthemum resting at the hollow of her hip, cradled there for no one but who she chose to see it.

She made her way in the world collecting charges (larceny, misappropriation of personal property, murder for hire, et cetera, ad nauseum) and fees. Her ledger held numbers of accounts. Bigger numbers in the black meant bigger numbers of red. 

It meant safety. She made her way in the world, learning to fight both with weapons of steel and fists.

Safety and security and a place to rest were her priority.

+

Until...

“You shot me,” Clint said curling her fingers over the recurve of her bow. Her evening gown was dirty and blood stained now. The sluggish trickle burned fever hot against her thigh and she had no time to reach for her gun to return the favor.

“I did,” he said a faint smile touching the curve of his lips.

“And now you want to offer me a job?” She narrowed her eyes and pushed her hair off her forehead. The stylish up do she'd spent an hour fixing with bobby pins and hairspray a rat's nest now from the frantic scramble down fire escapes and back alleys.

“Yes, Ms. Barton, we do.”

“Well,” Clint straightened up and eyed the suit up and down. “You have my attention.”

He laughed. “Glad to hear it.”

+

The Suit's name is Coulson. Special Agent Philip J. Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. (an acronym so long that Clint made herself remember it only when she was forced to) who gave her a job, gave her back her bow, and traded her safety and security in bloody kills for a place to rest.

There were still bloody kills, but with a purpose now other than her own. 

When she was little, very little, her mother put a movie on for her about a fox who would shoot arrows at evil kings who were cowards and gave to people who needed it. She chose Hawkeye because being called Robin was too close, still too close, to the memory of her mother. 

She carved “rob the rich” into the metal of the air ducts at different junction points of the Helicarrier the first night of basic training. 

There was a sticky note in her locker the following morning with a dvd. It wasn't Disney, but Errol Flynn.

She supposed it was then that she started to fall in love with Philip J. Coulson.

+

“You read my file,” Clint said coughing up blood, spraying the pristine white of Coulson's shirt with pink, ruining the cotton. She patted it with even bloodier fingers. 

“I did,” he said gun held loosely in one hand while scanning the still intact windows of the safe house. Pick up was fourteen minutes out and Clint had a feeling it might be thirteen minutes too late. “Your brother is a bastard.”

Clint laughed and clutched at her side. “Nah, he was the first born. The son that my dad always wanted. I was a surprise. A mistake, wouldn't have been if I'd had a dick, but dad...” She closed her eyes then snapped them open when Coulson smacked her cheek. “Sorry. Dad, dear old Dad, he wanted a whole mess of boys. Soccer team, football team of 'em. But I messed it up. Breech birth, tore up Mama something good. No more babies. No more boys. M' fault.” She patted his cheek and there were more blood tacky marks on his skin. She frowned. That wasn't good. “You hurt, Coulson?”

“No, just you. You managed to find the only bullet the guy fired. I'll have to add a note that you should not try to stop bullets with your stomach,” Phil said pressing the silk of his tie against the hole in her gut. “Probably going to have to be a permanent mark on your record, Agent.”

She smiled at him. “Sucks to be me.”

“Yeah, I'm thinking it kind of does most days,” Coulson swore when his comm buzzed with the pick up's position.

“Yup, kinda does. They died. Dad drove 'em into a tree. Was sad. Cried forever. Then I stopped. Don't cry anymore. They left. Mama left. Barney left. But we left the place. Miss Hanniefield's house. She useta hit hard. Not as bad as Mr. Sinclair. He kicked. Learned how to climb high after that. Then Barney came ta get me. Then we ran, and ran, and ran...” She slipped into a giggle again. There was some quality grade morphine in the first aid kit. Bless you, Philip J.

“What're you blessing me for, Agent?”

Clint's eyes tried to focus, but there were two of Coulson. “Y'always take s' good care of me. Haven't had that in a long time. Voice 's always so nice in my ear. 't others think I can't do much. 'ven if I...” She's lost her place in the talk but picked it up when Coulson pressed down hard, one hand on his Sig the other on her stomach. “Y'always believed in my arm an' eye. Jus' wanted t' say than...k. God, 'm tired, Coulson. C'n I sleep?”

“No, you can not, Agent. That's an order,” Coulson sounded upset. 

Clint frowned at that. That wasn't right. “'m in position, sir. Permission to stand down?”

“Not granted,” he said and his voice went loud. There was a thwumping sound above and Clint smiled at that. 

“Bird in the air,” she whispered.

“Hold on, soldier. You fucking hold on.”

“Not a soldier, sir. Asset,” she patted his cheek. She wanted to at least, but her arms were tired. Strongest part of her was so tired. 

“Goddamn it, Clint.”

She'd apologize to Coulson later. Maybe with donuts. But first, first she'd nap. He'd probably write her up for it, but that was...

+

Clint slept with Natasha the night they met. She was Franny and a bartender at the Swiss chalet in the Alps where the Black Widow was supposed to be hiding. They ended up in a Mexican stand off wearing only their panties and ridiculous bed head. “I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D. My name's Agent Clint Barton. We've got orders to kill you, but I think you're better than being dead.”

“I don't know. I've excelled in most things. I used to be a ballerina. I'm quite flexible. I imagine I'd be quite good at death.” There are mouth shaped bruises on her thighs from Clint's kisses.

Clint shouldn't laugh, but she does any way. “I don't doubt that, sugar pie, but I'll bet they let us work together if you sign on.”

The Black Widow aka Natalia Romanova aka Nancy Rushman aka Natalie Rushmann aka Natasha Romanoff tilted her head and looked Clint up and down. “Your name is ridiculous.”

Clint's gun didn't waver but her grin widened. “You like me.”

There was snort of laughter. “You are a very adept liar. To yourself no less.”

Clint shrugged, but the gun was still steady. “Yeah, but I'm pretty sure this time I'm not.”

Finally, Natalia lowered her gun. “I'm not calling you Clint.”

“Yes, you are,” Clint said setting the gun down on the dresser next to the mints. “It's my name, sugar pie.”

“Call me that again and I will kill you,” Natalia or Natasha or Nancy swept past her and stepped into the bathroom. 

“Okay, Nat,” Clint said stepping up behind her. “You're going to love Coulson. He threatens me with death before my morning coffee pretty much every day.”

They shared a shower, a cab, and a briefing before the day was out.

Natasha smiled as she was led away to Cognitive Assessment and Re-Integration to be unmade and then made whole.

Clint shared her Toblerone with Coulson and just grinned when he ranted at her for an hour about acceptable risk and loss, procedural dictates, and improper filing of paperwork. He ate the entire bar except for the two little pyramid pieces she managed to break off for herself.

Mission accomplished. Clint gave herself full marks when Coulson only threatened her with jail time and death once.

+

Seriously, the blonde guy was hot. Super freaking hot. She couldn't wait till Nat was back from Malibu. While they'd stopped fucking each other too long ago to really remember, they could live vicariously through shared fantasies of blonde meathead hotties with arms bigger than her head.

Clint braced herself against the sides of the swinging basket. The metal whined and the rain was doing shit for visibility. The wind wasn't helping either. It was kind of like that op in the Caspian Sea where Clint was swinging with just her leg around a crane strut and Natasha cursing at her in Russian. Fond memories, she and Natasha had eaten flatbread dipped in honey afterward while Coulson bitched them out about violation of several treaties and possibly the Geneva Convention. 

She sighted down and grinned as Big, Blonde and Beautiful gave Sanderson a shove so hard he went through a wall of mylar and metal. “Do you want me to take him down or would you rather send in more guys for him to beat up?”

Coulson sighed over the comm.

They both watched as BBB went through agents like they weren't even there. “God, I think I just heard a nation of panties drop, sir.”

“Barton.”

Rain dripped cold and steady under the collar of her vest and down her back. Her ass was wet. She hated that. She took a breath in, “You better call it Coulson, cause I'm starting to root for this guy.” She let the breath out and steadied her draw.

“Hold off.” Coulson's voice was steady, as steady as her arm.

Clint didn't have to be told to stand down. Both she and Coulson watched Blondie just strain and heave then just break. He broke apart in front of them both and she pulled her earpiece out and got out of her nest.

No one should see that. 

Tragic fucking stories should have no witnesses, but Clint was well aware that they always fucking did.

+

The only highlight from New Mexico was meeting Darcy Lewis. Clint brought back Darcy's iPod and they became fast friends. They bonded over the ogling of hot blonde thunder gods, Styx, and strawberry pop tarts.

Darcy let Clint talk her into a threesome with her and a friend in a town an hour away from Puente Antiguo. The friend had a dick they both enjoyed, a mouth they took full advantage of, and a tattoo gun and steady hands that marked them in fat black lines.

Clint took hers on the underside of her forearm where her arm guard usually sat. The Greek characters of ἀσφόδελος meant “asphodel” and were the plants in Elysium. 

"Others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel," Darcy said making sure that the characters matched from the wiki page she was reading. “Tennyson,” she gave Clint a kiss, and a smile, and then pushed, womanhandled her into the chair.

The buzz of the needle sounded loud in the quiet space. Darcy was naked and Clint hadn't done more than kiss her while they took turns with Samuel's cock. He did not mind at all. “Deep breath in,” he said around the cigarette.

“Thought you were studying Poli Sci, not poetry,” Clint said, licking her lips and watching as the first line is drawn. 

“I'm a well rounded lady, Clintonia,” Darcy said, eyes sparkling in the cheap fluorescent lights. “We should talk about your puppy crush on Mr. Secret Agent Man.”

“I am Mr. Secret Agent Man, Darce,” Clint winced when Samuel started again. She wondered if they had time for Samuel to go down on her before they had to get back to Puente. She'd make it worth his while.

“You really, really aren't. Besides, you must really suck at undercover stuff. That face of yours - every time the head of Jack Booted Thugs is around it goes all...” Darcy watched Samuel freehand the letters and she frowned at Clint. “You're going to get your spy heart broken, sweetie.”

“I've been told I don't have one, kid,” Clint tapped the tiny patch of gauze on the gentle round of her upper arm. “You are literally wearing your heart on your sleeve, Lewis.”

Darcy waited for Samuel to finish before giving her a kiss and careful hug. “I'm wearing mine on my sleeve to be ironic.”

Clint shook her head and got them both out of Samuel's loft. The dressing down for taking civilians off site and being AWOL was worth it when Darcy made faces behind Coulson's back. The pancakes from Izzy's hadn't hurt either.

Darcy introduced Clint to Dr. Selvig four days after their day trip and Fury ordered her to keep eyes on Selvig and the bright blue glowing cube.

Darcy Lewis was the only highlight. The rest was a blur of blue, stinging ink, and darkness.

+

The light flickered steadily against her face. The thrum of the engines against her back was familiar. The smell of metal and burned things meant home. She hurt everywhere. “Fuck,” she whispered and opened her eyes.

The memories came back. They rushed in a sickening whirl – Loki and the scepter. Shooting Fury. Germany. Taking shots and the resounding echo of metal and carbon fiber going through flesh. The screams of people, of innocents. Flying through the air back home, back to the Helicarrier. Hearing more screams. Shooting at Fury. Shooting at Hill. Shooting at agents, acquaintances, coworkers, and friends. Watching them fall. Killing them. Giving codes. Watching chaos.

Hunting Natasha.  
Fighting Natasha.  
Not sparring. Shoot to kill.  
Hurting Natasha.  
Leaving Natasha that split second of space and time to get in the right hit.

All the while screaming in her head for them to kill her; shoot her; stop her.

They talked about being unmade and being made whole and frankly Clint couldn't parse what else they'd said until Natasha finally touched her.

Natasha's hands were cool and steady on her brow and Clint wanted to retch. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah. Yeah, give me a target, Nat. Just give me something to sight and I'm golden,” she said. Her hands were steady even as her voice shook.

“To the birds, I heard Captain America over the comm.”

“No, shit? I once fucked a guy who lived in his mom's basement who had the sheets,” Clint gathered herself up, put herself back together as best she could. She jammed the pieces that were Francis Clinton Barton back into place. They didn't fit quite right, but it would have to do. “Fury want me restricted?”

“Probably. But...”

“Yeah,” Clint hugged Nat quick and hard. “Let's go save the world, matryoshka.”

Natasha punched her arm and they ran.

“Okay. So, not matryoshka. Sugar pie still off limits? Honey lips? Baby doll?”

They made it to the jet with her at the stick. She had bruises that hurt, but they were from Natasha and that was okay.

+

She didn't have enough. She wasn't going to be able to do this. They were outpowered, outmanned, and out of fucking time and luck.

“Get me to a perch, man,” Clint said adjusting her guard and slipping off her sunglasses. Her quiver was full, but there weren't enough for all these fucking aliens. 

Captain had issued the orders and they all fell in line like good soldiers, ducks in a row, and dominoes falling into place. Final show down and the curtain was about to open for the main event.

Or they were about to close on them.

“Clench up, Legolas,” Iron Man snarked and grabbed the back of her suit. 

They flew fast and Clint watched New York stream below and around her in gray, green and silver smears. The drop and roll onto the roof was instinct. The flying had been like being on the trapeze lines. She'd forgotten how it felt.

Falling was flying with a designated end point. She'd butchered that quote, but there was no one here to appreciate it. Darcy would have. Clint wondered where Coulson was. The murmur in her ear was absent, her ears lost somewhere in the dusty desert hundreds of miles away in the middle of the country. He was fine. She was sure of it. He was Coulson, the agent's Agent.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” she whispered at the first whine of engines buzzed past her.

She took aim, breath in and then out and let loose the first arrow.

She would have to make do with what she had and make all her hits count.

Story of her fucking life.

+

She ran. Well, first she had fallen, then she ran. She grasped and grabbed arrows as she went. From the carcasses of dying and dead aliens, she collected weapons. She threaded a new arrow as she leaped and dodged debris. 

Not enough. Gotta make it enough, she chanted in her head.

She'd shot that fucker off his alien hoverboard and watched the goddamn surprise when it blew up in his fucking face. She'd watched him tumble and disappear. She hoped Fifth Avenue was smeared with magician blood and brains. She hoped his scepter had made it way through his body and pinned him to the concrete like a damn cockroach.

She was so tired. Her arms ached and she was going to yell at R&D about the tension strength in her cabling for her grappling arrows.

Where was Nat?

Clint kept her eyes on the ugly glowing tower. It sparkled like a glass exclamation point of giant phallic proportions. She had claw marks, furrows in her side. She ignored the pain and pushed on, pushed past it. She spotted blue, red, and white first. She skidded to a stop as Captain America screamed into his comm. Screaming at Tony fucking Stark. Screaming at HQ. Screaming, screaming, screaming and Clint put her hands on her knees and tried to breathe.

It all coalesced in snap shots next.

Stark taking a nuke into a hole in the sky.

Nat on the roof right in the middle of everything.

Big Green missing and then appearing.

Captain was yelling. Still so loud.

Then it was done. 

Stark had saved the day with an epic assist from Nat.

God, she loved that girl.

Stark woke up from his space nap and asked if anyone had kissed him. Clint hadn't heard this till later. Her feet were already taking her to the Tower.

They'd won and Clint really needed a fucking drink with her best girl and a nap.

Maybe they'd let her have one or both before tossing her in Gitmo.

+

The meat turned in her stomach. She had eaten too much. She always ate too much. The head shrinkers at S.H.I.E.L.D felt her need to over eat and to hoard food was an indicative marker of psychological childhood wounds from living day to day in the circus and her traumatic orphan status. She supposedly sought comfort in food and drink to fill the aching hole in her life without love and support from parental and authority figures.

Clint always thought, “No fucking shit.” 

There was never enough food growing up even when her folks were alive. They lived paycheck to paycheck. It just made sense. Eat enough to last you for as long as your body could sustain itself. Keep food in reserve just in case. Life held no guarantees.

“You should get me back to base. I should be on the next transport to holding. I hope it's not Antarctica. Hate the cold. Maybe ask Coulson if he can swing my jail time in the facility near Leavenworth. Oh, hell. Fuck. If they're going to kill me, could you do it, Nat? I prefer a bullet in the head than the needle.” She was so damn tired and her belly was full. It wasn't steak and potatoes, but it wasn't a bad last meal.

The table was silent and Clint lifted her head. She scraped the hair out of her face and twisted it into a top knot, skewering it with a leftover wooden stick from someone's kebab. They'd take it from her in holding, but it helped keep the hair out of her face for now. “Hey, hey, Blondie Thunder from Down Under, don't give me those eyes. You know Darcy, right? You tell her I won't be able to make her graduation. Tell her she can have my records.”

She rolled her head against the back of her chair. The place was small, cramped, but it only had a blown out front window and the spices were sharp and pleasant smelling. “Nat, tell Coulson...” Clint shook her head and closed her eyes. Her entire being ached – used, misused, and abused. Rode hard and put up wet, cowboy. 

“Agent Barton...”

“Fellow warrior sister...”

“Fuck...”

“She doesn't know...”

It was Nat's soft voice that made her open her eyes. Her quiet little, “Clint, I'm so sorry... Fury wouldn't let me tell you. Coulson, he didn't-.”

Clint grabbed Natasha's hand, so hard that her tips of her fingers whitened. “No. You're lying.”

“Agent Barton, Agent Coulson passed away on the Helicarrier,” Captain America said calmly, voice full of soft regret.

Fuck that. Fuck him. He didn't know Coulson. The Captain didn't know how Coulson spent his free weekends and nights scouring flea markets and online sales of collectibles with his hero's name and face on them. Captain Fucking America didn't know how they'd spent an op at ComiCon busting everyone's geeky balls on Captain America and Bucky Barnes trivia. Steven “Captain America” Rogers had no fucking clue that every year on the Fourth of July, Coulson brought in fucking cupcakes to HQ because it was Goddamn Captain Fucking America's birthday. 

“Fuck you,” she said, voice low and mean. “Fuck all of you. He's not. He can't be...” She felt her gorge rise quickly, almost out of her. She forced the important words out first. “Was it me? Did I?”

“Loki.” It was the tired looking doctor who answered her. 

She still shook her head. No, not Coulson. No, no fuck them. Fuck you. Fuckyou. FUCKYOU. She only realized she was screaming the words till her throat started to ache, her fingers pressing in deeper and harder into Natasha's flesh.

Natasha twisted out of her hold and pulled her across the miniscule space that separated their chairs. Clint always forgot how much smaller she was than Nat. 

The last time she'd cried was the day after they'd stolen that car to get to the circus. Barney's hand had been so tight in hers even when she had slept. She'd wiped the tracks off her face as soon as they spotted the tents. She didn't cry after that.

Except now.

She wept and cursed and hit, aiming fists against Nat's shoulders and arms. Easily deflected and Clint was held in strong arms and soft curves.

Later, she was told the rest of the team hadn't cried. They hadn't known Philip J. Coulson well or at all. They had watched and let her cry, uncomfortable though the lot of them were, but they stayed and kept vigil as she wept.

It was Captain America who carried her back to base. The only clean spot on his uniform was the small spot over his heart where her face had been pressed, shining blue and white rubbed clean with her tears.

It was fucking patriotic and poetic.

Phil would have loved it.


	2. with nowhere to run

In the end, they didn't shoot her with a needle or a gun. Natasha didn't have to gut her. Darcy did not get her music collection. Clint did not go to jail. 

In the end, she attended a month long comprehensive stint in the Cognitive Assessment and Re-Integration wing complete with magical and mutant sprinkles (Dr. Strange declared her clean of all malevolent evil magicks and the Professor from the school upstate said her psychic scarring was healing nicely.) She attended meetings and debriefings with Hill and Fury, combined and separated. She attended all those meetings with her resignation in hand.

She left those meetings still an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D and her resignation burning to ash at the bottom of Fury's wastebasket or cut up with Maria's very sharp k-bar.

“You were not control of your actions...”

“Won't accept it. You're too valuable. If I haven't killed you myself yet...”

“Team refuses to let you go...”

“You were brainwashed...”

“You don't get a vacation, Agent. You haven't submitted the right paperwork...”

“Get out of my fucking office with this shit. It's melodramatic as hell. Do I look like I'm running some kind of group therapy?”

The reasons streamed out of her superiors' mouths with regularity and Clint nodded and walked out of the meetings. She avoided most of the carrier's common areas and disappeared into the ducts. If she spent most her time hiding, in the junction between the cafeteria and Coulson's office... Well, there was no one the wiser.

+

Clint read the files. She'd killed a lower number of agents and soldiers than she thought. The psychics (mutants) and psychologists(human) all thought she'd retained enough presence of herself to shoot to maim and not kill. She really hoped they were wrong. 

Because...

Because if she'd had enough presence of mind in those instances to not shoot to kill by Loki's orders, then she should have had enough presence of mind not to do it all. She should have been able to tell Loki to fuck off and stop him from mindraping her in the first fucking place.

But the evidence blew _because_ out the window and into the damn toilet.

Fury was alive with a barely there bruise from where her center mass shot hit. She knew he was wearing a vest. He was a soldier and a paranoid fucker above all else. She knew he always wore a vest.

Maria was alive, albeit with a bad limp from one of Clint's arrows going through her calf. Not a shot through the chest cavity, but at her leg. 

Clint snuck down to medical and watched the injured agents – lacerations through arms, through and throughs from her guns in shoulders and thighs, bruises and broken bones from hits she'd doled out in hand to hand. 

Far fewer dead than she'd thought.

“Shouldn't have zigged when I zagged,” Clint murmured and she let herself topside and crawled into a deep dark corner to rest. It was the closest thing she could give, as apologies went, for the bodies she'd left in her wake.

The thrum of the engines under her feet and against her back almost felt like a voice in her ear.

+

She was cleared for leave. She was cleared for leave with Natasha riding herd on her. 

She met Loki's eyes above the S&M-R-Us mouth gag and she smirked at him. Her eyes were covered by dark colored shades, they hid the shadows under them. She calculated just how easy and quick it would be to grab her gun, her bow, her knife, or the ice pick she kept in her glove box and just let loose. She wondered if severing the brain stem worked on demi-gods.

She watched as Thor took hold of the handle and then that was it.

“You know, I should stop dating bad boys,” Clint said, climbing into the car. She watched Cap zoom off on his motorcycle and Stark and Banner bro it up in Stark's penis mobile. 

Natasha just tugged her over, a handhold in her ponytail. The kiss against her forehead was hard, almost enough to bruise. “How do you feel about Canada?”

“Poutine sounds good,” Clint said closing her eyes tight. Her cheeks were wet and she didn't think it was raining.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sun was shining down in Central Park as they drove away.

+

It happened when Clint was on a joint op with the spooks and S.H.I.E.L.D. She'd been back stateside with Natasha for a week before being loaned out. Natasha had disappeared into the bowels of her mother country and Clint was left sitting around her room at HQ with too many hours logged on the range and the still too recent number of injuries and kills dogging her steps.

She was the Hester Prynne of Death and Dismemberment. 

Erin Cross was in the middle of her draw when her phone bleeped at her. She let loose and picked up her gear. Her pick up point was across the city and she had to double time it if she wanted to make the right L train. Chicago was bitterly cold and she really fucking hated freezing her nipples off on rooftops covered in gray snow.

_“Fury lies. PJC still kicking. Stark jet. Runway 342. C U at Tower.”_

Stark added an obnoxious flying rainbow cat thing. 

_“Bring me back Malnati's.”_ Was the next text.

She quickly made her way down the stairs and back to the safe house. She packed her belongings and brushed her hair with neat precise movements. Her weapons broken down and put in her hard case with the familiarity of many times being done. The cab ride to O'Hare she spent with her head between her knees trying to breathe through hysterical laughter.

Natasha's only response to her text was, _“Have Stark send me a pick up.”_

God, she loved her best friend.

+

There had been an op in Bangkok where Clint slept with Coulson. He had been trapped in an industrial sized freezer for too long and they couldn't leave the tiny room they were in till morning. HYDRA agents had been spotted at every medical facility within a 40-click radius. They had to do the sit and wait. In Coulson's case, it was more of a lie and vibrate apart. Coulson was wracked with shivers and Clint didn't hesitate in peeling out of her clothing and crawling into bed with him to share her body heat. She kept watch, tracking every shadow on the wall and every noise while he slept against her, body quaking.

He had muttered under his breath the entire time, skin far too cold for far too long as he leeched heat from her. Heat she willingly shared. Her head swam with the humid heat of the Thai night air, but she left the fan and the ancient air conditioner off and closed them up in the hot little room. He talked into the early hours. He talked in fragments. He gave her stories about his days in the Rangers. He moaned out lost soldiers', friends', agents' names. He repeated his name and serial number as if the cold was holding him prisoner. She just wrapped her arms tight around his middle, keeping his arms free so he didn't feel trapped.

She kept a silent watch. She just listened.

By the time the sun broke through the line of buildings with the new day, Coulson's body had stopped shaking and his teeth had stopped chattering. She just put her clothes back on and dressed him.

Neither one of them talked about it afterward. Her report was short and to the point.

He gave her a look when her words were only. “Kept you warm, sir. Practically suffocated you with blankets. Almost put you in that dress I had to wear to the ambassador's dinner,” she winked at him.

Coulson sighed and waved her out of his office. “Thank you, Agent.”

Clint gave a sloppy salute and turned on her heel. 

“Barton?”

“Sir?”

“Thanks for having my back.”

Clint shook her head. “You're an idiot. I've always got your back, sir.”

She ran.

She ran after that and never told him how she kept her hand over his heart throughout the night just to make sure that the beat was still there through the shaking and mumbled words.

+

She remembered Bangkok and then Fresno and then Grand Rapids and then she remembered the first time she'd met Philip J. Coulson. She still had the scar on her thigh. She probably scared the flight attendant, laughing so hard she was crying.

She had been stupidly in love with Phil Coulson for over ten years and she'd been a coward and never made a fucking move.

And she still wouldn't because Phil was alive. She may not have stabbed him with the scepter, but she may as well have. 

She took the phone the attendant handed her and she called Nat. “I can't see him.”

“Don't be an idiot,” the line was staticky and Natasha sounded like she was talking from the bottom of a well.

“It's my fault.”

“Don't make me repeat myself.”

“Nat.”

“Francis.”

Clint banged her head against the window. The lines of Manhattan were taking shape through the haze of morning fog and pollution. “He should hate me. I let the monster into the house. I gave the monster the fucking keys to the castle.”

“He will not hate you. You did not ask to be brainwashed. You did not ask to be made a puppet. You are a good person, Clint. You refuse to see what everyone knows.”

“I'm a stupid girl who fell for a pretty face.”

“Loki did not give you a choice.”

“Wasn't talking about Loki,” Clint whispered.

Natasha sighed and there was a boom and screams in the background. “I know. Stay in New York till I get there or I will hunt you down and make you very sorry.”

Clint laughed and it was watery and choked. “Yes, Mistress Natasha.”

They both sighed. “Budapest.”

“Good times.”

“You and I have different ideas about Budapest. Also good times,” Clint said rubbing her forehead against the dark shapes of skyscrapers in the distance.

“We got Coulson in a dress. I counted it as a win, little hawk.” There was the patter of gun fire and Natasha's breathing quickened over the line.

“I'll wait for you in the Tower. Promise.”

Natasha snorted and there was the thud of bodies hitting the ground. “Good. Ya tebya lubluy.”

“Love you too,” Clint said, but the line was already dead.

“We're ready to land, miss,” the attendant said taking the phone from her.

Clint nodded and just watched the sun eat the night away feeling the wheels touch down, rolling down asphalt with a destination set. 

She envied the plane.

+

“You look like crap.”

Clint slung her bag onto the floor next to what she was pretty sure was a Jackson Pollock. The frame shook from the impact and she just gave Stark a faint smile. “Fuck you, Stark.”

“Stop it, Tony.” The sharp click of heels against wooden floors made Clint look beyond Stark. “I will set fire to your cars again.” The redhead paused. “Or I will let JARVIS know that you will be attending all the S.I. board meetings for the next two months.”

Stark made a face that Clint decided looked like a very constipated hedgehog. “Pepp, c'mon. Katniss is like a bro. She likes it when I tease her.”

There was a pause and Tony got shoved aside none too gently and Clint was face to face with one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen. Gorgeous redheads seemed to run thick on the ground in her life. “Ma'am,” Clint said holding her hand out. “I'm Clint Barton.”

“Virginia Potts. You can call me Pepper. Please don't kill Tony or set him on fire. I know the urge to do so is strong but fight it if you can. If you can't, please don't get blood on the floors. We just had them waxed and getting the floor guys up here is a pain,” Pepper said taking Clint's hand in a strong grip that gave every indication about how delicate beauty belied a steel spine and shark teeth. 

“I really want to kiss you, ma'am,” Clint said grinning. 

Tony looked interested. 

“No,” Pepper said without looking back at Tony. “I'm flattered but sadly I'm horribly straight. Life would be a lot easier if I were more inclined to female company. Also I'm a little over 12 percent in love with that guy.” She still wasn't looking at Tony, but she did incline her head slightly.

“Hey!”

Clint sighed and shook her head at Pepper. “If you ever feel like running away together, I hear Massachusetts properties are beautiful.”

“I'll keep it in mind, Ms. Barton.” The tone was dry but Pepper's mouth twitched in an almost smile.

It reminded her so much of Coulson that Clint bit the inside of her cheek. “Call me Clint or Hawkeye, Pepper,” Clint said. “Nat in the air yet?”

Tony looked from Pepper to Clint and back again. “Yeah. She's due in by nightfall. Faster if I can reroute some flight plans.” He paused and gave Clint a measuring look. “You know that none of us blame you for what happened, right? Also if you and Pepp are serious, please let me film it. It'd be hot as hell and as I'm happily monogamous these days, I think I deserve a treat for being-.”

Pepper pulled her phone out and typed out a quick message. 

“Fire department en route, Ms. Potts.” The voice came from above Clint's head and she didn't flinch, but it was a close thing.

“Pepp, why is the fire department coming?” Tony asked as Clint crossed her arms under her breasts already smiling.

“Because I will more than likely be setting fire to something of yours,” Pepper said sweetly. “Quite soon.”

Tony pouted at her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Happily monogamous. Seriously, barring sex pollen attacks or body switching or permission... All yours.”

Pepper kissed Tony quick and sweet before stepping out of his arms. “Play nice with your friends. I have a company to run.” 

The elevator chimed and shut with a shush leaving only the faint scent of Pepper's perfume in her wake.

“Seriously. Marry her.”

Tony sighed and draped himself over Clint. “She said no. She keeps saying no. I gave her a Tower. Do you think she wants me to buy Palau? I could do that.”

Clint patted the top of Tony's head, surprisingly okay with Stark clinging all over her. He was kind of like a clingy octopus with crazy hair. “No buying small island nations, Stark. Maybe... give her reasons to want to marry her. You know, like not offering to watch her have sex with your co-workers.”

“Huh.” Tony cupped Clint's face in his big hands. He smelled like brake fluid and burnt coffee. It was kind of comforting. “I will take your words under advisement, young padawan. You want to know about Coulson now?”

Clint tried to hide the wince, but Tony had put that laser focus right on her stupid face. 

“Huh.” Tony squinted. “I'm usually worse at this whole people have feelings thing. Okay, you do look like shit. I wasn't lying. Grab some sleep and we'll meet up with Captain Red White and Blue and Bruce when Natalie gets in.”

“Natasha, call her Natasha. Natalie is a cover.”

“I know,” Tony patted her on the head like a dog.

Clint growled and snapped her teeth at him.

Grabbing her things and being directed to a bedroom by Tony's AI was not the weirdest thing about her day. She would worry about that.

She was more worried about how she and Tony had just laughed when she'd shoved him away from her after he tried to give her a noogie. God, she really hoped he really did not want to bro it up with her.

Her liver would hate her.


	3. this might hurt a little

“So, that happened...” Clint winced covering her face with a plaid shirt that smelled like fabric softener. 

“Er, would you like some breakfast, Miss Barton?”

She really needed to not find big, hunky, blondes this endearing. They were like the Golden Retrievers in human shapes. She had always been a sucker for puppies. Big blue eyes and nervous hands should not be adorable. It was like finding a Precious Moments figurine suddenly superhero sized and wanting to know if you wanted to start the day with a well balanced meal of oatmeal and FREEDOM.

“Cap?”

“Yes, Miss Barton?”

“One, don't ever call me Miss Barton. Ever again. Ever, ever again. Call me Hawkeye. Or Clint. Or hey, fucker,” she used what she assumed was Steve's shirt to wipe the sleep out of her eyes. 

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm not calling you a fucker.”

“You'd be one of the few, Cap,” Clint said squinting at the window and judging if her brain was going to fall out of her eye sockets. She smacked her lips and grimaced. “Two, Tony Stark should never ever be allowed to mix drinks with Natasha Romanoff. Ever, ever again. Remind me of that, Cap.”

“Clint, call me Steve,” Steve said his lips twitching a little. “And no drink mixing for Agent Romanoff or Tony. But really, call me Steve.”

Her hair was probably reaching epic heights of bedhead. “Considering we slept together?”

Steve blushed. Steve blushed all over. Clint, if she were less hung over, would have loved to see if he blushed front to back in addition from the top to tails. “We, er. That is. You're still wearing all your clothes!” He glared at her. “And I have had sex before no matter what that stupid game says. I was in art school and in the Army and Tony Stark is...”

“A fucker, Cap. Tony Stark is a grade A certified fucker from the great country of Bag of Dicksistan,” Clint spied the glass of water on the nightstand. Best eyesight in the world, the Amazing Hawkeye. She gulped it down and it made her stomach turn and clench at the cold, but she forced it down with the two white capsules.

She scraped her finger over the side and tasted the powdery residue first though.

She looked up when she heard a little gaspy grunt sound. “Did you just make a maidenly gasp of insult?” She rubbed her face with her hands, the balls of her palms pressing at her temples. “I have been an agent for over ten years, Steve. I don't take meds or mystery pills without a little test taste. Force of habit. I didn't mean to imply that you were trying to roofie me.”

“I don't know what that means,” Steve said narrowing his eyes. “I wasn't trying to kill you. It was just aspirin. It wasn't poison. The Artificial Intelligence said they should help.”

“God, okay. We'll stick a note in to brief you about date rape drugs,” Clint muttered. It was too fucking early for this shit. “I know my life is safe with you, Captain America. And is even safer with you, Steve.” She pushed his shirt off her and stumbled to her feet. “But I'm not stupid and I haven't lived as long as I have taking stupid risks. You haven't earned my trust yet. And I haven't earned yours. Give me the courtesy of doing both. I know you wouldn't or possibly wouldn't because Tony Stark has crazy computer Big Brother watching and could probably fry you with hidden electrical fields should you try to accost virgins in the stairwells.”

“Quite right, Agent Barton. Except they're more of specifically targeted electrical pulses. That would bring down most people. I would, however, adjust to the Captain's own capabilities.” The voice was dry and so very British.

Clint laughed and then groaned when her own laugh made her head ache and sat down again on Steve's bed for her boots. “Coulson will love that.” She concentrated on her laces and tugged them loose so she could jam her feet into them. “You are a good guy, Steve. I know that on an intellectual level and you proved that by not doing anything to me when I passed out, so I sort of already started trusting you. Or Nat gave you a warning about gutting you in your sleep.” Not that she couldn't take him in a fair fight or wouldn't have at least gone down fighting if had tried anything. She still had three weapons on her not including her gun that was sitting next to the empty water glass.

“Er, both,” Steve said smiling a little and sitting on a ridiculously tiny desk chair next to the bed. “You were really drunk and Natasha needed some rack time. Tony and Bruce had already disappeared into the labs... I was the only one. We all needed a safe place to rest after seeing...”

Clint swallowed hard, bile that tasted like Jim Beam threatened to come up, and she nodded sharply at him. “Like I said, thank you. You're a good leader, Cap. I know that up here,” she tapped her forehead and was grateful that there was only a dull ache when she looked at him, haloed by morning light and looking very much like a romance novel hero. “But I don't know that in my gut yet. Starting to. Just gotta give me time. Let me sight it down and take a breath.”

Something in her words must have hit something raw in Steve because Clint tilted her head at the frown on his face. 

“You sound a lot like a guy... A guy I used to know. He was a sniper too. But he didn't assume much about people. He had to have them prove themselves to him first. I... I didn't even know if he liked me or was my friend till he told me,” Steve sounded far away and Clint felt like she shouldn't be here for those words. They weren't really for her.

“Sergeant Barnes was a good guy. He was always my favorite part of the stories and movies about you and the Commandos. They make him look like a self-centered jerk most of the time or some idiot sidekick, but I figured us smart-ass assholes needed to stick together. He was one of my role models growing up,” Clint said finishing her laces and pulling her hair back up and out of her face. It was getting long again.

Steve looked startled at that. “Yeah, yeah he is that. Was that,” he said and looked down at his hands.

Clint stood and walked the two steps to him. Her hand looked ridiculously small on his big broad shoulder but still she squeezed and held on tight. “He was a good man. I'm glad I get to know his best friend, Steve.”

Steve looked up and he smiled at her.

Neither one of them mentioned how shiny Steve's eyes were.

Neither of them mentioned just how tight Steve's hand squeezed hers when it covered hers.

They just sat looking out at Manhattan from Steve's window and watched another day start.

+

Finding Coulson hadn't happened the day Clint had arrived back. Finding Coulson hadn't happened when Natasha finally slipped into the living room of the common floor of Stark Tower. Finding Coulson hadn't happened till Natasha and Clint had a very long discussion in the hallway while the rest of the team pretended not to listen. 

Natasha not so quietly sharpened her knives and Clint waited for Tony to queue up the information.

“He looks like...”

“He looks happy,” Natasha said voice even and cool, the quiet snickswishclick of the whetstone over her blade followed her syllables.

The video of Philip J. Coulson streamed in live and in color on the big flat screens in the media room of Tony's penthouse. 

Phil Coulson also looked like chewed up dog food, but he was smiling. He smiled at children. He smiled at old ladies. He smiled at young men and young women. 

“I didn't know Agent could do that,” Tony said clicking at different angles from different cameras.

Clint sat there quietly and watched Phil move about his day. 

Two days ago when she'd been up on that Chicago rooftop it had been ninety-eight days, sixteen hours, and twelve minutes that she'd thought Phil was dead. The day she sat watching Phil pick up his dry cleaning, pale and still favoring his left side, it was Day Two of a new world. A world where Philip J. Coulson was alive.

“Is he on an op?” Natasha asked. Her fingers were wrapped tight around the handle of her knife. 

Tony made a few taps in the air to bring up a lot of encrypted files. If Clint hadn't know how much of a mostly good guy Tony actually was, she'd be more afraid of there being an evil in front of the genius. “Nothing on the books. Unless he's working off book. But his death certificate hasn't been posted or processed. It's in paperwork limbo. Even if we went to the service and his family cried. They gave his mom a flag. What is she supposed to do with a flag? Cap, what is she supposed to do with a damn flag?”

Steve looked less like he wanted to punch Tony, but not by much. “It's a symbol.”

“It is fucked up and stupid. Her son is dead. A flag isn't going to do anything to help with that,” Tony said jabbing his finger at the still picture of Martha Coulson holding the folded flag in her hands and just staring down at it in bewilderment.

Steve didn't answer, but a muscle in his jaw ticked.

“Was.”

They all turned to look at Clint. She'd forgotten that it'd been over an hour since she'd spoken last. “Was dead. He's not anymore. Or his evil twin is walking around with the same scars as him. Could be. Has happened before, but unless they ransacked his office, that's the tie I gave him for his birthday last year and the pocket square Natasha brought back for him from Beijing three years ago. He always wore them together. He's wearing his second best Kenneth Cole boots. He's also drinking the right kind of afternoon tea and has the same eye tick when they don't steam the milk properly. Same cowlick too over the right ear.” Clint said, not looking at them. “Don't think you can fake cowlicks. Not even twins have the same cowlicks I don't think. Maybe mirror images of the same cowlicks? Bruce?”

No one said anything as Clint calmly got up and walked to the bar and pulled out the bottle of Jim Beam.

She poured herself three fingers full of it without ice and gulped it down hard. 

“So, he's the real deal and he's there voluntarily,” she looked down at her empty glass and frowned pouring herself another. “Fury lied but he didn't maybe. Maybe Agent Philip Coulson did die on the Helicarrier and this Phil Coulson has a brand new life.”

There was a long beat of quiet.

“Well, that's some fucked up shit. This discussion needs cocktails,” Tony said tossing his hands up and the screen shots of Philip J. Coulson's new life disappeared. He gave Clint a giant bear hug and poured himself a scotch. “We're toasting. We didn't get to be at the birth of this new Coulson. We should drink to his birth or something. The fucker.”

Clint met Natasha's eyes from across the room and she reached behind Tony for the bottle of vodka. “Come on, sugar pie. Cocktails for the new Philip J. Coulson.”

Natasha walked over and used her knife to bypass the cap, slicing the top of the bottle off like a pirate queen and her saber. “To Coulson.”

Clint didn't cry. She shed not one tear then or later.

Because everyone knew saline ruined the taste of most alcohols.

Not that she was drinking for the taste.

+

The world was ending.

So, Clint should have known. She should have expected this. She should have picked up the look that Maria was giving her. She should have noticed the way that Natasha stilled next to her. She should have noted the way that Tony suddenly stood up, the chair making a loud clanging sound when it hit the metal floor. She should have seen the way that Captain pushed himself away from the wall to stand by her chair.

She would have wanted to laugh.

Her entire team knew.

They'd probably figured it all out after the destruction of city streets and bellies full of rich lamb meat. 

The tears were always a dead giveaway.

Stupid, stupid pathetic girl.

She could have looked at Coulson. She could have said anything in that moment, break the tension. She could have cracked a joke.

“What is he doing here?” Bruce's soft calm question was it.

She would have survived it. She would have been okay.

Could. Should. Would.  
Have and have nots.

She broke.

And she broke him right back.

The right cross to his jaw put him down and she ran.

+

As her life was the culmination of all those chick flicks that Coulson and Nat had loved to subject her to during downtimes on ops, she supposed it wasn't surprising that it was raining when she hid in her nest that she'd constructed at the top of Stark Tower. 

But she had only hid after they saved the world.

Doom and his bots who love to break shit had run rampant all over the Exchange floor leaving scared rich guys scrambling away from metal men. No matter what Sitwell had squawked in her ear, she really hadn't been rooting for the robots.

Well, not totally rooting for them.

Captain found her after her exit and told her in no uncertain terms that if she wanted out of the mission she was allowed. He was aware of her feelings for their new liaison. She looked up at his earnest sweet face and almost cracked him across it with her left hook. She settled for baring her teeth at him and saying, “If you take me off this op, I will shoot you in the nuts with my grappling hook arrow and swing to Freedom. You got me, Captain?”

She expected to be benched for that.

He just looked at her kindly and gave her a fucking hug.

“We're in the air in ten, soldier.”

“We're already in the air, Cap.” She went back to the war room and sat between Bruce and Natasha and did not meet Coulson's eyes. She took the briefing packet and skimmed the whereabouts of their new liaison for the past six months and said nothing. 

“Barton.” 

There it was. Natasha tensed next to Clint and Bruce's eyes flickered. 

“I just wanted to-.”

Clint looked up finally and gave him a grin that she made goddamn sure was bright and wide. “Gotcha, sir. Just because you took a vacation doesn't mean you get a break. What if I was a crazy version of myself? Got the drop on you when you let your guard down. Getting sloppy, sir.” She patted his cheek and executed a quick little turn of her heel and she didn't stop walking till she slid into the seat of the chopper. Her hands on the stick were steady and if she didn't wait for the final call out of personnel, none of her team called her on it.

She may kind of love her team.

+

Four months into Phil's new life not as the Agent's agent, Clint calmly submitted all the correct paperwork for her medical proxy, last will and testament, and the entire stack for Form HCB-2324 that gave directions for the disbursement of all her assets.

The list is extensive and she drafted it on the greasy back of an old pizza box after one late night of killing flying monkeys (supervillains were getting way too much time in front of TCM).

_So, I'm dead. This is what I'm going to leave all you jerks._

_To Tony, not a goddamn thing. You get nothing, you asshole. But I guess you can help yourself to whatever I leave in the metal locker at the Greyhound station in Canton, Illinois. The combination is my score on Fruit Ninja on my phone. If you input the wrong number, badabing badaBOOM. No multipass for you, fucker._

_To Bruce, there's a set of books in my footlocker on the Helicarrier. I know you hate it, but it was the place I'd rested the most and that's where I kept my stuff. The Narnia books have marks and the pages where Susan is being a badass are for me. You don't remind me of any of the characters, but the books were the ones I used to bring with me when I was up high. They were the ones I brought with me when I was first starting to learn how to climb and hide._

_To Maria, all my knives. Seriously. All of them. Even the ones hid in those really ridiculous high heels we got in Italy. You ate gelato and I seduced an ambassador's son. Wait, no that was Brussels and it was a duke and I had some kind of noodle thing and you were the one who made out with that guy._

_To Pepper, Nat knows where I keep my flammables. In case he steps out of line. The thermite should eat through the leather on the Bugatti fast._

_To Darcy, all my records. Except for Styx. That one gets buried with me._

_To Thor, there is a tiny bbq place owned by a Donald Blake in West Texas. They have standing orders to kill enough steers to feed you and your friends. I probably have a tab for you that will feed you for at least a year. Maybe don't bring Volstagg with you too much though. The beer you buy yourself._

_To Fury, the locations of Target 3454BCB, Target 88888HHI, Target 8554073Q are written in a file located in your desk labeled “Expense Report March 27, 2000.”_

_To Steve Rogers, a bottle of aspirin and a lifetime membership to the Met. I would have left you the comics, but you don't need those to remember him._

_To Natasha, my sugar pie, I really hope they read that out loud. I leave you everything else. Anything you want. It's all yours. You made me better. I hope I go first. I don't want to be here if you're not. Remember Franny loves you even if you snore and steal the covers. Erin likes it when you make her tea. Clint hated it when you shoved your cold as ice toes under her thigh. Francis thought you were the best._

She left Coulson a letter. She wrote it on a single sheet of 8.5 by 11 of copy paper. She waited three days after processing her paperwork before stealing the envelope back and burning it. She put the ashes in a new envelope and sealed it up tight and kept it in her dresser drawer.

She was pretty sure she had nothing that Phil Coulson wanted from her. Her words and possessions were all she had and she'd given them to everyone else.

It made her feel hollow that it still hurt.

+

The rain was cold. It was colder than the first time she'd looked down the shaft of her arrow at the big broad face of the guy currently standing under her perch. “You're getting wet,” she said inanely. She hadn't thought she'd been up there too long. Her hand ached and she probably had a cracked bone in her hand from the fist to Coulson's face. Her back twinged a little. She'd taken a header off the second floor of the building into Iron Man's arms. She'd managed to nail the main cerebral output of the lead robot. She counted it as a win.

“I will dry, warrior sister. Might I come up?” Thor asked and even with his hair plastered to his head, he was gorgeous. Jane was one lucky lady. 

“Sure, sailor. Climb the rigging and come look at the broken glory of the Big Apple,” she shifted over and only raised an eyebrow when it only took a handhold and a near impossible twist of his huge body to get him landing right next to her. “You know, the first time I saw New York I was nineteen. I had been on a bus for sixteen hours and smelled like exhaust fumes. I sat next to this tiny little Jewish grandmother who kept trying to set me up with her cadre of grandsons. At least I knew they'd be circumcised, but I was going to Coney Island. You been there yet?”

“No, my lady, I have not,” Thor sat with his back against the main support strut behind him, stretching his long, long legs out. They rested against her side, the wet concrete seeped through her tac vest making her stomach damp. 

“You should go. We should. Get you on that Ferris Wheel, but don't call down the light show. Metal and lightning are a bad combo, big guy. But yeah, Coney Island. I had a one woman shoot 'em up show, but got bored quick. Decided to start looking for a bigger paycheck. Thought I wanted more glory, make a name for myself with kills to my name so no one would ever try to get one over on me,” Clint stared out at the rain. It was coming down hard, sheets of it blanketing the city. “It was stupid. I was stupid. Young and stupid. I was trying to... to make someone notice me, tell me I was good. Which is pretty stupid when you're a gun for hire and a sniper. I knew that. I had it pretty good. No one expected this face,” she pointed at herself. “To be able to notch an arrow and put it through someone's eye. Or send a round into a guy's brain from thousands of meters away on the Sears Tower.” She looked over at Thor and smiled a little. “Brought the hammer down on myself. Got noticed. Got a Coulson.”

Thor just rested his hand on his hammer and rubbed over the etchings. “When I was younger, I too wanted to be worthy. I was brash and foolhardy. I listened to no one but myself. I trusted...” He looked at her and smiled sadly. “I trusted a brother. One man who I thought had nothing but love and goodness in his heart for me. But I failed to see just how his jealousy and hurt had festered. How the little regard my parents, wise they were and are in many places, had for him. I failed him and in that I was led astray by his words and mine own actions. The hurts that this world has suffered I take blame for. I had a hand in destroying it inasmuch as my brother, Loki, did. He hurt many people, but each hurt is magnified by the meaning of one person toward another.” He cleared his throat and his fingers tightened on the leather woven on the handle. “We both suffered losses. You carry scars on your body and heart as do I and as does this fair realm and this city.”

Clint reached over and touched a finger to Thor's knee. “I am a horrible person but I think some times it would be better if I didn't know if he were still alive. If I kept thinking he was dead.”

Thor said nothing and looked out into the night.

“Then I think, no, maybe my penance is knowing he is alive. He brought me in to do good things, protect the ones who couldn't and can't do it for themselves. He brought me in to protect the people who used to be me, and I fucked it up. So, I deserve this. I shouldn't have hit him. He didn't lie to me.” Clint poked at Thor's knee. “And you are not your brother's keeper. Miss him, hate him, love him. He is still your brother. I hate my brother. He is an asshole and pretty much left me for dead before I switched out of my training bra. But there's still a part of me that will always love him.”

“I thought Loki was dead. Before the discovery of the Tesseract. He fell off the Bifrost into nothingness, into Time and I let him go. It was my fault.”

Clint laughed. She couldn't help it. “God, this team. This entire fucking team is full of brother, daddy, mommy, and bad touch uncle issues.” Thor frowned at her for her laughter. “No, seriously. Fuck. My dad sucked. He sucked so hard. He hated me because I wasn't blessed with a dick between my legs and I have had guys old enough to be my dad hit on me before I was old enough to even know what the fuck it meant. Nat's got no childhood that wasn't made up. She lived for years thinking she was a ballerina, but you know what? It was a memory they implanted in her. She doesn't even have daddy issues. She has non-issues. God, Bruce. Fucking Bruce,” she wiped her face and didn't know if there were tears there or rain. “His dad was worse than mine. Worse than the foster dad who beat me with a golf trophy. Mr. Banner took his fists out on Bruce's mom and him. I hacked his old records from when he was a kid? I didn't even know you could get x-rays that small. If anyone deserved to get angry...” 

She sat up and she barely noticed banging her head against the roofing. “Then there's Steve. He lost an entire life when he was just trying to make the world better. Your people should write an epic poem and song for that shit. He lost his girlfriend and best friend pretty much at the same time. And his mom died of cancer. Just, I didn't even know they had cancer in the 40s. Goddamn. Oh,” she shoved herself back into the corner of the nest, the sides hugging her shoulders and she stared at Thor. “Tony... Tony Stark is the biggest fucking asshole you will ever meet. You know?”

“I do.”

“But he, Christ. He is such a fucker. Just silver diamond encrusted spoon in his mouth, but you know what? I would not trade his life for mine. Pepp told me that Howard just used to stare through Tony. He would dream when he was little that he was a ghost, that he didn't exist. His mother was a society lady. She pushed Tony out and then forgot him. Jarvis - the real one, not the computer - raised Tony. Then Tony, when he got older, he kept Stark Senior's company going and Tony almost gets his ass assassinated for it. He was tortured,” she whispered now. “I saw all the video logs. Made myself watch them when I heard that we were starting the Initiative. I wanted to know who was going to be on my team, who'd have my six. The things they did to Tony.” She shivered. She remembered a month long stint in Lima where she'd been held captive by mercenaries. They didn't rape her, but they beat her, made her crawl for her food and piss herself. Nat and Coulson found her lying among the dead bodies when they finally rescued her. She'd killed her captors, but the length of chains attached to her shackles hadn't left her enough room to escape.

“Lady Clint?”

“Sorry. Just... he survived that and then Stane. His mentor tried to kill him again. Ripped the heart right out of his chest. The poetry of that is fucking disgusting,” she said, wiping at her face. “So we, my big blonde friend, are a passel of issues all tied up with a crazy ribbon of in need of happy drugs.” She took a deep breath and leaned in close to poke at his cheek with a hard finger. “So I strongly advise you to run, man. Run away from us as fast as your lightning bolts will carry you. You are probably the most sane one out of this merry band of misfits.”

Thor looked at her and his lips twitched slightly.

Clint began to giggle and Thor snorted out a breath of laughter. 

They howled with laughter, clinging to each other and stumbling out of the nest. They ended up lying on the floor of Tony's media room watching cartoons and infomercials till dawn broke. She ached in the worst and best ways possible.

From fighting and laughing to arm wrestling with a sleepy god.

It wasn't a good time. But it wasn't the worst either.

And if they both fell asleep a little easier laid out on the hard floor, Clint wouldn't say a word.


	4. putting grace to the test

Two weeks later and she found herself ensconced on Coulson's couch. She was getting over it. She was making herself get over it. 

Coulson paused right in the doorway. His arm still in a support sling, but looking better than pasty oatmeal. “Agent Barton.”

“Sir.” She raised an eyebrow at him and touched the tip of her finger to the newly threaded arrow. “Post-mission debriefing, sir. Sitwell said you wanted it direct.”

“I am aware that I sent that memo.” Coulson eyed her then moved around the room to sit in his chair. He groaned a little as he sat. 

Her shoulders tensed and she bit her tongue down hard to offer to grab him some aspirin. (It was a joke now between her and Cap. She was never far from a pocket full of Bayer with him around.)

“I thought you'd avoid it to be honest.” Coulson rubbed his face with his free hand. “Look, I want to apologize for keeping you and the team in the dark. But I'm sure you read the medical report and the after action incident summation.”

Clint moved onto the next arrow, she picked at the tip with a rasp. “Nope. I didn't. Not my business.”

That seemed to surprise Coulson. “You always read the reports. You hack the system all the time to find out-.”

“Sir, you were dead. As soon as Nat told me it was Loki that kill-,” she swallowed hard and focused on the metal in her hands. “Killed you. I didn't need to read more. Wasn't my kill and that was... the best I could hope for. When you came back, well, we'd already known you were alive and kicking. Didn't need to know more than that. Glad to have you back, sir.”

Her back teeth ached right now.

“I lost part of my lung. Cauterized most of the tissue on the exit, but still bled like a stuck pig. Crashed on the table twice. When Nick found me, talked to me before they took me away, I'd already been revived once. I gave the order. He took it under advisement and did what he thought was best,” Coulson's lips twisted a little. “But you and Natasha and the rest of the team were supposed to have been notified afterward. As soon as I was out,” he stared at the top of her head. 

Clint did not look up. She put the arrow back in her quiver and rolled out her cloth and set out her knives. She picked up the first and started the slow precise roll of her fingers over the whetstone and against the blade.

“You and Natasha were supposed to have been told. Maria was supposed to have been told. There were complications. Coma for a month. Woke up and got a nasty infection at the wound sites. Slipped into another coma. I was pretty much just existing for the next few weeks. Heard they held my service while I was sleeping.” 

Clint felt his eyes boring into the back of her head. Her hands and fingers were steady, moving in easy strokes, metal filings falling onto her pants. They glittered softly from the overhead lights.

“Then they figured out I needed a magical shock. Except it kind of rebooted my brain. Forgot myself. I forgot everyone. I knew how to dress and what I needed to do for myself. They moved me to New Brunswick while I recovered. I was happy, but I kept missing bits. Kept thinking someone, someones were waiting for me around the corner.” There was a pause and Clint knew he was taking a sip of the awful milky tea he preferred in the later afternoon. He laughed and the sound was rough, it rattled in his chest too loudly. “I stopped a robbery. At a 7-11 and it all came back to me.”

Clint didn't look up but she asked, “You use a bag of flour again, sir?”

“Cornmeal this time. Didn't even know they carried it at 7-11,” Coulson said and smiled when she finally looked up. “And then, I called the red line and gave them my initiation code and they brought me back.” He grimaced a little. “My mom was not happy.”

That Clint laughed at. “Martha is going to kick your ass when you go home for her birthday.”

Coulson sighed. “She really is.”

Clint set aside her knives and rolled them up in the soft case. She kicked her feet up onto the table and put her hands behind her head. “Ready for me?”

Coulson took another sip and set his mug down the line of tension around his mouth smoothed. The click of the pen made Clint relax, ease back into the cushions. She could do this; it wouldn't be the same, but she'd make it as close to as she could. 

“Sit rep, Agent. From 0930 if you please,” Coulson's pen scritched across the page and Clint opened her mouth and detailed the doom bots attacking a petting zoo.

The briefing was short. Thor was not amused at metal men terrorizing goats and children alike. He fried their processors with one spectacular light show.

Clint collected her things and tossed a roll of donuts onto Coulson's desk. “Do not tell, Dr. Alvarez I gave you those. She'll hang me up by my toes.”

Coulson smirked at her and touched the package with the tip of his pen. “Our secret, Agent Barton.”

Clint paused at the door and she hefted her quiver up on her shoulder. “It really is good to have you back, sir.” She did not stop. She did not go back. 

Not even when she heard his, “Good to have you back as well, Agent.”

+

It was normal. It was as normal as their lives ever got. They saved the world on a semi-regular basis and Clint gave her reports directly to their liaison. Sitwell was her handler for all intents and purposes, but Coulson still came over the comm lines to direct when need be. 

The first few times they went out, even after seeing Natasha and her out in the field, Steve was protective. It wasn't that he didn't trust her arm or eye or that Natasha was scarily competent.

“What, Steve? What is it?” Clint eyed him over the edges of her sunglasses. 

Steve blushed and he waved his hands a little. “Iron Man, he's got the suit. And Widow's, well the Widow, she's scary with her own skills and she's not going to be in direct line of fire. She'll be handling behind the lines stuff. Thor and Bruce, I'm not worried about for obvious reasons and I've got my shield and.” He shrugged.

“And I'm a poor frail piece of fluff, Cap?”

“God, no! You're one of the best soldiers I've had the honor of serving with. You proved that against the Chitauri!” 

Steve was often full of exclamation points. Clint had shared her thoughts on Steve being a Golden Retriever to Natasha and Natasha had actually snorted out a laugh. “Then what is it, Captain?”

Steve ducked his head and it really should not have been that adorable. “You're just so little. You could get hurt.”

It is sweet and goofy in a very over protective brother way. For that she cut him some slack, not a lot, but some. “Come here, Steve,” she said leaning forward across the aisle. “I appreciate you caring about my safety. I appreciate you wanting to protect me since I don't have a Transformer suit or get big and green or shoot lighting out of my hammer.” She paused. “Way dirtier sounding in my outside voice.” She poked a finger into Steve's chest right over the star. "But I will put an arrow in your ass, Captain if you even think about benching me. This is my job. This is what I signed up for.”

“Would you consider having Sitwell be your spotter, back up?”

Clint smiled sweetly at him and patted his cheek. “Listen, Captain if it's a light enough job that they can spare agents, then I'll just stay home. Your choice. You check my clear rates and then you tell me if I need a baby sitter. I'm sorry. I mean, spotter.”

Steve sat back and she waited him out, eyes calm and gaze steady. “You report anything-.”

“I'm your eyes, Cap. That is my job. That and to put these very pointy sticks into very bad men and women who try to hurt people,” Clint said and she stood up to take control of the plane from the junior agent. Grabbing the controls of the plane was a lot more productive than trying to wring the neck of a national icon.

After the Discussion and after Clint had shot her way through a walking blob of goo with tentacles, Steve apologized. She accepted after she rubbed a still gooey hand through his hair. “You are adorable when you're concerned. Don't do it again, bro.”

It was almost normal when Coulson returned. Steve was on the line as well. There were no less than six voices in her ear as she tried to line up her shot. She could feel the muscle in her calf knotting from the unnatural angle she was holding herself. “Fuck,” she muttered.

“Hawkeye, report,” Steve ordered.

“Gonna have to flip upside down to make the shot, Cap.” She didn't have the angle this way and there wasn't time to set up somewhere else. She had to get it under the lip of the awning. Her original perch had been perfect, but as it was now a smoldering pile of broken things, she'd had to adjust. 

“Negative come back to point and we'll try something. Iron Man what's your ETA?”

“Well, considering the big damn monster chewed off my boot and almost took the squishy caramel meat center that was my foot and because it got mad that I shot his master and then threw me INTO NEW JERSEY... You may have to give me a minute, Capsicle,” Tony yelled.

“Agent Barton, do you have the shot?” Coulson's voice broke through the rest of the yelling and the bitching.

“I do, sir.”

“Then take it.”

“Yes, sir.” Clint swung herself upside, hanging by her knees from the edge of a forty story high rise balcony. Her foot was hooked in the filigree ironwork and her draw didn't shake. Her breathing centered she took in a slow breath and let the arrow loose on the exhale.

It flew fast, cutting through the air and across city blocks. There was a soft thwack and then the anguished gurgling sound of a good hit. Across the city there was an echoing yell and roar, then nothing. 

“All clear. Monster is down. I repeat, monster is down. Clean up team A and C meet up at Broadway and...” 

Clint tuned the extra chatter out and took a deep breath before curling her body in a quick twist and landed back on the balcony. 

“Barton, talk to me.”

“All clear, sir. Target hit. Messy. Better send in a mop crew,” Clint said, shaking her arms out and doing a quick inventory of her body. She'd pulled something slightly in her lower back and there was a slow dripping cut on her forehead from the building blast's debris. “Oh hell.” 

There was a chunk of plaster sticking out of her calf. She amended her earlier “cramp” to “piece of old timey New York in your leg.”

“Barton?”

“Send a med team. Embedded a piece of something architectural into my right calf. Probably going to need stitches. Damn fucking hell, I liked these pants,” Clint broke out her field kit and started wrapping her leg, leaving the shrapnel where it was. 

Coulson was cursing over the line and Clint should not think it was cute. “Damage, Barton?”

“Doing okay, sir. No worse than the Scranton op,” Clint said resting back against the railing.

“You logged a paper cut as the total extent of your injuries, Barton,” Coulson said with a laugh.

They'd somehow both switched to their specified private line. Clint must have and Coulson must have done it without even thinking. And that was a line of thought that Clint was closing up tight and putting aside.

“I did, sir.”

“You were bleeding out on the paper mill floor.”

“Technically, a goon using a paper maché machete is still paper and it cut.” Clint grinned and wiped her forehead clean with an alcohol pad. “But this time I'm totally telling the truth. Teeny tiny part of a building put itself into my leg. Not even bleeding a whole lot. And now I'm just waiting for a ride,” Clint said noting the fast approach of a chopper. She could manage a hop into the bird if need be. 

“Don't even think about it, Barton.”

“Ride's here, sir. Be in later for the debrief,” Clint waved the chopper over and she slung her quiver across her body and pulled herself up to grab the ladder.

“I'm going to kill you, Barton.”

“Gonna have to catch me first, sir,” Clint flicked off her comm and whooped as the pilot followed her twirling fingers. “Once around the park, Jeeves!”


	5. with every word i've got a lie to confess

It was normal. It was. Clint banged her head down. It would have hurt more and been better if she weren't banging her head against Natasha's bedspread. “I should have just actually slept with him. It would have made my life much easier. Plus our babies would be adorable. Fuck my life, Nat. Seriously, fuck my life.”

Natasha folded her legs under her and she continued to loop the yarn over one needle and pull it through with the other. 

“He's got a history of really, really enjoying the company of and falling in eternal love with strong women. I'm a strong woman. We are bad ass chicks, Nat.” Clint mumbled. “I should have boned Captain America for life, liberty and all of woman kind over the age of 18. It was my civic duty and I failed. I fucking failed.”

Natasha turned her work and began the next row.

“Definitely not Thor. Thor is practically married or handfasted or betrothed to Jane. They're going to have smart thunder kids. They'll be science-y enough to explain just how the electrons in lightning work and then also be magic,” Clint picked at a loose thread in the weave. “I should have just stolen Pepper from Tony. She's a good kisser.”

After the last big shindig at Stark/Avengers Tower, Clint had yanked Pepper over with a loud drunken, “DAMN YOUR KINSEY SCALE PLACEMENT, VIRGINIA POTTS!”

And then proceeded to make out with Pepper. Tony made no small noises about catching and recording the episode. Pepper announced that the clip of them together fueled his fantasies for the next month. “He had the clip on constant rotation in his, ahem, Spank Bank folder,” Pepper said with a roll of her eyes. 

“I would like to state for the record, Ms. Potts, that I hate my existence,” JARVIS intoned sadly. JARVIS hated his AI life. It was no secret.

Clint liked making out with girls at times. It was nice and she'd fallen into and around relationships with women. She and Nat had been a hot thing for a bit of time, but they'd both realized that they'd rather have each other's backs more than having the other on their back for them. Clint would die for Nat and Nat would take a bullet to the brain for her. Clint had also surmised that Natasha Romanoff was possibly the best at best friend cuddling. It was a secret that Clint would take with her to the grave.

This was not to say that Nat would not hesitate to kick the ass of any significant other that posed any threat to Clint's well being.

To that, Clint always made a point of sharpening her arrow points whenever she met Nat's prospectives. "I'm going to call this one Marcus. You know, just in case at some point in time we aren't friends anymore, Mr. Stanislauv." Marcus Stanislauv did not pee his pants. Well, not a lot.

“I am more than a little worried that he has ruined me for all other men, Nat.” Clint sighed and she resigned herself to wallow in her sad, sad Being That Person pity party.

Natasha finally set aside her knitting and petted her head.

"Girls are so much easier. Why couldn't I just want to spend my statically probable short life with Maria or even Darcy?" Clint was not going to whine. She wasn't. Not really. “He's in Portland with his cellist. Pepp told me last night. She got this sad scrunchy faced look for me. I am pining, Nat. This is pathetic.”

“To be fair, you have been pining for close to ten years now,” Natasha patted her shoulder.

Natasha was the worst at comforting. The absolute worst. It was probably Tolstoy's fault or early vodka consumption.

“To answer the first part of your question, Maria is the mother you never wanted and Darcy is riding all over Steve's cock or Banner's or both. Possibly all three at the same time. I haven't got visual or audio confirmation on the triad, but enough intel for three separate couplings," Natasha said patting Clint's back.

"Wait. No, you mean Darce and Steve and Darce and Bruce and Bruce and Steve?" Clint sat up and blinked. "That's hot. Can JARVIS get us footage?"

(JARVIS hated his AI life because there was sure as shit about 12 different "spank bank" folders on his servers. He wondered often if he could hack himself into an early retirement and live the life of a gentleman AI. Possibly a public library somewhere in Turks and Caicos.)

The footage cheered her up a bit, but the final file of Tony being pinned against the wall by Steve was both awkward and hot. “Hate sex,” Natasha said shaking her head.

“Pepp would be into it,” Clint said then frowned. “EVERYONE in Avengers Tower is boning but me. And now I have to go to bed with my right hand while Phil bangs some fucking musician."

(Clint's drawer of BOBs was depressingly empty. She lost her tiny apartment in the Battle of New York and most of her belongings. She managed to save some photo albums and her music collection. All her weapons were safe. But her sex toys... Gone the way of the Chitauri dodo. She kept meaning to replace them, but she forgot. It had been a rather busy year.

Between Doombots and sorcerers and thinking the only man she's ever loved was fucking SKEWERED, Clint had had a lot on her plate. Heading into the Village for a vibrator had been low priority.)

Natasha sighed and took off her shirt. “Come here.”

"Oh god, no. No, Nat.” She held up her hands and waved them. “I do not want a pity fuck," Clint said.

"You're getting a pity cuddle you stupid, stupid cow," Natasha said and Clint pouted. Still, she took off her jeans and slid under the covers so her body pressed up tight against Natasha. The light snapped off and Clint burrowed closer still.

"I may have to leave, Nat," Clint whispered because it was dark and her eyes were closed. 

And she just fucking hurt all over, but it wasn't a bruise or break. Clint thought that sucked the most. 

Natasha smacked the back of Clint's head but also kissed her forehead. "You have four drop bags. I know where they all are. Just give me a day's notice before you go. We'll go for crepes."

Because Nat was the best, best friend a girl could have and understood the need to disappear. "I love you. Don't tell him, okay?"

She smacked Clint upside the head again. "Don't be an idiot."

And that was as good as a good night that Clint could ask for and drifted off to sleep.

+

Bruce would have made a great guy to fall for, Clint thought sadly. She patted his head and pushed a sandwich into his hands. Well, it was next to his face now in between a stack of science journals and what appeared to be an inert arc reactor casing. “You have to eat. I'm pretty sure Hulk with low blood sugar is nothing I ever want to see.”

A hand fumbled above his head and she slapped the sandwich into it. “We could just hook you and Tony up to IVs with bags of nutrients.”

“No needles,” Bruce mumbled through a mouthful of hummus and sprouts and some kind of other green stuff. 

Clint swung herself up onto the top of a cabinet and sprawled out watching him. “We should have had sex.”

Bruce choked on the whole grain bread and speckled the monitor of his computer. “Uh, no.”

“I said, should have had. I don't poach. Then again, would I be poaching from a national icon or from the girl that I made out with in New Mexico?”

“Wait, what?” Bruce was sounding far from green about it. More intrigued than anything so Clint figured she had the go ahead. 

“Darcy and I got tattooed together. We also had a fun night with the artist before and after he inked us,” Clint grinned.

Bruce smiled at that. “The heart on her sleeve?”

“Yup. So, you're banging both Steve and Darce. And they're banging each other, which I know you know,” Clint rummaged in her vest for a power bar. She peeled back the wrapper and took a big bite. “I don't poach. You three are doing some really awkward but super hot mating dance. Nat has a pool going about when you guys are going to all bone together. I say it's happened already but more than likely it's happened either here in the lab, in Steve's room, or Darcy's apartment. Nat is a big believer in Steve announcing your triad marriage first to the team before engaging in coitus all together,” Clint grinned at Bruce when he laughed.

“What's the pool at?” Bruce finished the sandwich in three big bites. He caught the bottle of water Clint tossed him.

“Close to 2K. Tony threw in most of it because he made a deal with Pepper that if he got the footage that she'd contemplate something for his birthday. You do realize we live in some freaky deaky porn den?” Clint pitched her wrapper into the garbage can.

Bruce looked impressed at the shot. “Huh. Well, tell Tony you won. You're wrong though. It happened during that time when Darcy couldn't do anything but tell the truth after she got hit with that ray gun?” 

“The Pinocchio Incident,” Clint made a face. “Poor thing.”

“Didn't end too badly,” Bruce smiled faintly. “We only broke her bed a little.”

Clint laughed and she slid down off her perch. “You are a bad man. Corrupting the youth of yesteryear and today. I'm totally splitting my winnings with you. Well, a small portion. I'll buy you guys a whole fuckton of lube.”

Bruce accepted the package of Oreos that came from another pocket of her vest. “You're a gentleman and a scholar, Agent Barton.”

Clint ruffled his hair and sighed. It would have been so much easier if it were Bruce.

Then again nothing much in her life was easy at all.

+

The tree was tall. The branches wound themselves around her body, they cupped muscle and bone. The spiky greens were dark against her skin, they framed the curves of her breasts and followed the flow of her ribs. The tattoo took five sittings and an inordinate amount of time for Clint to sit and stay and have her back exposed.

The first two times Clint had Natasha with her, watching the artist with a steely hard eye. 

“Your girlfriend is kind of freaking me out,” Samuel said, the cigarette bobbing up and down with each word. “It's kind of hot.”

Clint just listened to the buzz of the needle against her skin. New Mexico was still as hot as it was when she sat in Samuel's chair the first time. His shop has expanded and Clint found herself looking him up at her next detail through the touch site of Thor's first arrival. There had been a significant decrease in evildoing on the East Coast and Clint's request for leave did not coincide with the holidays or avoiding Coulson's usual invitation to spend them at the Coulson family house in New Haven. 

“How long are you here for?” Samuel's gun tip goes back into the little pot of ink.

“Nine days, maybe more if no one tries to blow up the world,” Clint said smirking.

Samuel's laugh is rough and smoke tingeing the sound. “I saw your thing when you bitched out Fox News. It has about a billion hits on YouTube. Loved that you handled that dickwad just firing back at him like it was nothing.” He paused. “This is going to take more than three sittings.”

Clint gave Nat a look. “I'll make arrangements to have it finished out. Unless you feel like visiting the East Coast?”

The buzz stopped for a moment and there was that laugh again. “Yeah. Sure, why not? Haven't been threatened by an alien or a monster yet in my life. Bucket list is running short.”

“Don't tempt fate,” Clint said and closed her eyes and listened to the faint click of Natasha putting her knives away.

The tattoo took five sittings all together. Samuel added the last green shading two days before Clint almost died. 

There was poetry in that she was sure.

+

The Fox News bit was a clusterfuck from beginning to end. As soon as the media got it its teeth that there were two women in the Avengers and regular members of the team, the rumors started. Clint was uncomfortable with the attention. She'd spent a fair chunk of her youth in the spotlight for her skill and in shadowier parts of her adult life still in the spotlight, but at a scale where there was money exchanged for kills.

She was not prepared for TMZ.

There were rumors that Natasha was sleeping with everyone on the team. They had actual news stories about Natasha being a sleeper agent desecrating national heroes and being the Lindsay Lohan of the superhero world. Clint wanted to hide all of Natasha's knives, but she knew it was an exercise in futility. She just hoped that the reporters who called Natasha a “Russian mail order assassin bride” had their affairs in order should they ever meet Natasha.

There were rumors about her as well. They had no idea who she was. There were fewer pictures of her than most of the other women connected to the team (Betty Ross as a former flame; Jane Foster as Thor's fiancée or babysitter, the media was still unsure; Darcy Lewis was slanted as the Girl Friday of the Avengers, it was the closest to the truth out of all of the things said; Pepper Potts had been in the media spotlight for so long that she had a nice comfortable chair to sit in to laugh at it along with a cadre of lawyers who loved saying things like “sue” and “libel” and “it is well within our means to buy your company five hundred times over and then some”) until they start really digging. It took no time really for the stories about the death of her parents, her time at the circus(es), and possible shady past to start to crop up. 

There was a day when Maria was pissed. “How did they crack those encryptions? Those records are sealed!”

Clint sighed and poured herself another finger of Tony's very expensive scotch. “People in small towns talk, Hill.”

“There are people taking pictures in front of your circus poster on Coney Island,” Sitwell said slapping down a stack of photos another time.

Clint rubbed her face with her hand. Her other hand was swathed in gauze. “It's a really old poster. It doesn't even have my face on it really. I'm wearing a mask.”

“They are interviewing your old foster parents,” Fury said dropping that tidbit in at the end of a briefing on new HYDRA threats in the central states. 

Clint nodded sharply and headed out to the range and shot until Coulson yanked her out and shoved her into her quarters, revoking her range access for twenty-four hours. She crept back down to the range ten hours later.

They really should have known by this point to lock down the air ducts if they didn't want her in places.

The last straw on the parasitic media camel's back was one question posed during a routine press junket. Her only real recollection was that the event was to help Project Rebuild It! The Avengers Initiative began it as an NPO to help rebuild all the stuff and places they kept breaking in order to save the world.

“Hawkeye, Ms. Barton! Are you aware of the rumors that you are engaged in relationships with women?”

Clint really thought that the term “deafening silence” was just a frou frou lit term.

Pepper stood up at side stage and Tony was pulling his mic forward when Clint just raised her hand. “No, no. I got this.”

She waited for a moment of silence after the moving of chairs and the eager fucking faces on the reporters' faces. “I am and have been and will continue to be engaged in relationships with women. Some of the finest and strongest people I know have been women. I'm not confused by your question. I may not have as much school learnin',” she drawled out sarcastically, “as Tony or Bruce, but I would hope that you'd have the balls to ask me flat out what you wanted to know instead of couching it in stupid news talk. The question you are looking for, Mr. Chandler and oh, Fox News,” she rolled her eyes. “The question you want to ask is – Hey, Hawkeye, you're blonde and cute but you're on this team of superhero mancakes. Which one are you banging? You're not banging any of them? You must be a dyke. So, are you a dyke, Ms. Hawkeye? My conservative right wing brain cannot take the images of you and that super hot redhead over there doing the nasty. Except I probably have stacks of lesbian porn in the sticky drawer of my nightstand. So, give it to us straight, ha ha. Give it to us, Hawkeye. How about it, Missss Barton? Are you fucking girls? Tell me your fucking story. Because that's what we're here for. We're here for your story. Not this awesome charity that is supporting people in need. No, what we want to know, ma'am, is who the fuck you fuck.”

Clint stood up and she put her hands on the table and leaned forward and did not take her eyes off Mr. Chandler. She did not feel vindicated when he flinched. “Here is your answer. I have had very satisfying relationships – committed and sexual and platonic with women. I have also had similar ones with men. I have loved a man. I will continue to do so. I haven't fallen in love with a woman yet, but hey. It could happen. And I told you that not because I think I owe it to you or that you deserve to know. Or because I think you get to dictate who I get to love. I told you because you should all remember one other thing.” She clutched so hard at the edge of the table it creaked a little. “You should remember that I shoot things, pointy deadly things at moving targets for a living. I have very good aim. The best in the goddamn world. And I never miss.” She smiled sweetly at Chandler and then straightened her spine. “So, please, please ask me more questions about my family, my past and who I've fucked. Please do. No?”

She hopped off the stage and walked out of the auditorium with her head held high.

She made her way to the bathroom and promptly threw up everything she'd eaten that morning.

+

Clint ignored all the requests from Playboy, Maxim, and GQ for photo shoots. She gave interviews, but declined photos. 

She gave the Advocate, Women's Health, Vogue, and Compete Magazine interviews, photos, and even a couple of signed arrow shafts.

+

In 1977, Jennifer (nee Clinton) Barton gave birth to her second child.

She would never see her daughter fire her first gun.

She would never see her daughter take on a dragon.

She would never see her daughter fall in love.

That was the saddest ending to a story.

+

“Fuck.”

“So, I was notified by medical about changes to your medical proxy,” Coulson said, voice cool and collected.

Clint groaned and it was too goddamn early for this. She blinked and looked out at the shiny sun and the birds twittering in the trees. Nope, not birds. It was the programmed “morning time” sounds that Tony had on rotation for the Tower. She possibly hated her life more than JARVIS hated his AI one. “Filed all the proper paperwork, sir.”

Coulson paced in front of her bed. Coulson never paced. Clint tried to push herself up. She frowned as she actually thought Coulson was incapable of pacing. Running, shooting, glaring at in an official capacity, but pacing was beyond his programming. Pacing indicated worry.

“You did. Why are you getting up?” Coulson glared at her from across the expanse of her bed.

“Because I apparently slept the day away. I've got things to do,” she made a face. “Sir.”

“You fell from twelve stories and then got zapped by a sleep ray!” Coulson did not yell. Normal people yelled. Phil Coulson did not yell.

Clint rubbed her face with her pillow and then tried to swing her legs over. “It was a little sleep ray. And I'm pretty sure Thor or Tony or Bruce caught me or we wouldn't be having this conversation. Because I'd be dead. And sorry, sir, but if you're it for the afterlife I must have been doing something...” She shut her mouth with a snap and she shoved off her blankets.

And got them shoved right the fuck back on.

“You will sit. You will stay. You will rest until you get the all clear from Alvarez,” Coulson, there he was, ordered with a snap at the end of each of his sentences like teeth clacks were period points.

Clint glared right on back. “Sir, yes, sir. Permission to remind Agent Coulson that Agent Barton was never a soldier and she doesn't have to snap to every time ordered.”

Coulson crowded her back against her pillow. Clint did not back up. It was not in her to back up.

She may have eased down against the pillows.

“You will follow my orders, Francis or I will make sure that you're reassigned to Greenland for milk runs for the foreseeable future. Do I make myself clear? A simple nod of your damaged head will do.” Coulson's grip on the pillow by her head flexed and she nodded.

“I was informed that you changed your medical proxy. You submitted all your paperwork for disbursement of assets on death. You submitted your last will and testament on a box from the Napoliteria.” The words seemed to incense Coulson.

Clint had a feeling she was in trouble. “Yes?”

“I read all the forms. I read the last will and testament and first, I was hurt. We've known each other for over ten years and I wasn't even mentioned. I thought, possibly, I was misreading the relationship., the friendship, and that you truly just thought of me as your handler,” Coulson did not break his gaze once.

Clint looked over his shoulder and licked her lips. “What do you get the guy who has everything, sir?”

“No, no. That was what I thought it was at first. That you were just humoring me all those years. You were my best friend and I read those things and thought I had lied to myself,” Coulson's voice is hard, but there was hurt there.

“You were mine too.” Clint hated words. She hated them. She hated them because she was so bad with them.

“But then I thought longer about it. You do know that reading forms was why they hired me for this job,” Coulson smirked and they both knew that that was a lie. “And I figured out what you were trying to tell me even if I wasn't there. Even when you thought I had gone out and made a new life for myself.”

Clint hated Natasha. She hated that redheaded double crossing big mouthed Russian. 

“You figured out something that I had known for a long time. I got a clue though. You left me one big tell, Agent Barton.” Coulson's breath touched her cheek and Clint shut her eyes. “You left me as your medical proxy. Not Natasha or Bruce or any of the others. Me. And you figured the rest out by yourself. Even when I wasn't in your life. When you thought that I was dead but alive somewhere else.”

Clint swallowed hard and willed herself to move, to get away.

She wanted to stay so much. She forced herself to open her eyes. She stared at the weave of Coulson's tie.

“My best friend figured out that if she were dead that I wouldn't have wanted anything. The one thing that I wanted would have been gone. You would have been gone. And if you were gone, I wouldn't need anything because it would be dust. So, thank you for putting that on paper for me,” Coulson's forehead touched the top of her head.

“You're welcome,” Clint managed and she licked her lips again.

“I lied you know.”

“Which time?” Clint's reply was quick. She felt like she had walked into an op and was scrambling to figure out her piece and placement.

“When I told Pepper about Portland. About the cellist,” Coulson's nose touched her temple.

Clint's head came up fast and it was only Coulson's reflexes that kept him from a concussion or a broken nose. “You what?”

“Cellist. Lie. Never was. First thing I could think of. You know, bows,” Coulson smirked and he watched when she licked her lips again. “That was always one of my favorite tells of yours.”

“Uh...”

“The lip thing,” Coulson said, angling his head a little.

“The lip thing...” Clint parroted back and she was definitely scrambling on this recon. 

“You lick your lip when you're nervous. Pretty common one. Thought we'd trained it out of you, Agent. But that's not right. When you're in the field, you're perfect. No tells, nothing but the op, but when you're at home, you're Clint. Hell, you're Francis. And I am kind of in love with that woman. Except strike kind of.”

Clint stared at him, mouth open, eyes probably still crusted with sleep and her hair sticking up every which way. She did not want to know what her breath smelled like, but she really, really needed to blow her handler. She needed to kiss him first maybe. “Off, seriously, get off me,” she said pushing at his shoulders.

She was halfway to the bathroom before she turned and realized his shoulders were slumped. He was the picture of sadness in his crisp Armani lines. “Christ, I really. Jesus, no. No, hell no.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him with her to the bathroom. “Agent Philip J. Coulson, what forms do I need to fill out to kiss you and fuck you through the mattress for the next foreseeable forever?”

It wasn't the classiest declaration of love, but it was Clint so that was par for the course. She jammed her toothbrush into her mouth and spat out Colgate into the sink.

Phil stared at her reflection in the mirror and he took a step forward crowding her against the sink. “Clint?”

She rinsed and wiped her mouth with her t-shirt and shoved her fingers through her hair to try to tame it. “I have been in love with you for about ten years give or take. I kind of hated you right at the beginning with the GSW and all and possibly hated you a lot in Fresno, but for the most of the past ten going on eleven years I have been in stupid love with you. And I wasn't trying to bang you because...”

“You didn't trust me at first,” Phil said easily and unbuttoned his jacket, draping it over the toilet tank. “I had to earn it. I had to work for it.”

“Me too, fuck. Me too, Phil. Just... you didn't leave and that counted for a lot.” Clint tugged off his tie and undid his belt with a quick flick of her fingers. The shirt followed the jacket, layers of Coulson piled up in her bathroom leaving just Phil for her to look at and touch. “Then you did leave and I was stuck with...”

“Yeah,” Phil pulled her against him and Clint traced the red and pink lines of the scars on his chest. 

Their first kiss wasn't with Phil's mouth on hers, but of hers against the puckered marks of his survival. 

The second kiss was a lot dirtier and longer.

Neither of them complained.

+

Clint suffered no ill effects from the sleep ray or the fall. (It had been Thor who swooped in to save her in the end. She did not complain about the 45 minute dressing down Coulson gave the team about protecting assets in the field. She was unconscious and unavailable for comment.) She would, however, like it stated for the record that she would have gladly suffered through a multitude of effects if it resulted in where she was at this moment.

She had waited a lot of time to unwrap Philip J. Coulson with the intent to fuck. 

Phil, the expedient fucker, already had her naked and wet. Two fingers pushing their way into her, sure and confident like everything else about him. He bit and licked his way down her shoulder, marking his territory like she was something to be claimed. 

Clint kicked out at him and she pushed his pants off his hips. It was another handful of seconds for her to get him out of his boxers and down on her knees. “Goddamn you, Coulson. If you don't get your shit off ASAP, I am finishing without you.”

He was naked in the next two breaths. 

The smirk should not be that sexy. It should not be that hot. But Clint was a sucker in love. Her hands slid up his calves, hair rough against her palms and her mouth followed the lines of his body. From the smooth tops of his bare feet to the taut striations of his stomach and hipbones to the wider expanse of his chest, scars and all, Phil Coulson was one sexy fucker. Clint couldn't decide if she wanted to stay on her knees and learn this man by touch and taste or if she wanted to have him do the same for her.

“Impasse,” Clint murmured and licked at the crease of his thigh. 

“Christ, what?”

“Can't decide if I want to suck you off first or if I want to have you on my bed,” Clint said looking up at him with an arch of her eyebrow.

He matched it with one of his own. “Pick one. I'm sure we'll get to the other options in time. Probably have to repeat them a lot. Because I'm not letting you off this detail for anything.”

“That's a big declaration, sir,” Clint licked at the tip of his cock, wrapping her fist around the base. “Going to have to make sure I'm on task. Gotta give me a target and let me get into position,” she said moving in to suck at the tip with a teasing little flick.

Phil groaned and he gripped the edge of the sink. “Agent, you have succeeded in almost every task and mission we've headed up. I have the utmost faith in you.”

Clint stood up quickly, pressing up against him and pushing at his shoulder a little to be able to look him in the eye. “You better mean that, Phil. I'm fucking invested in you.” 

“I could get a ring,” Phil offered and it's not a joke and that made Clint's stomach leap.

Clint punched his arm and grabbed him by the dick. She gave it a squeeze and laughed when he groaned again, pushing his hips into her hand. “No, no rings. Just... this. Us. That's what I need.”

Phil cupped her face in his hands and smiled. There was no faintness to it. There were no shades of amusement. It was all for her and she took it. She was greedy for it and she answered him back with one of her own. “Understood. Us. Just us.”

Clint laughed and even she was surprised at how happy she sounded. They tumbled onto the bed and she thumbed over the head of his cock, shiny and wet. “Later, you are totally letting me blow you. I'll wear your tie.”

“Christ, woman, you are going to kill me,” Phil pressed his face against her neck and he reached for a condom. He rolled it on quickly, giving her a tease when he sat back on his heels and stroked. 

Clint spread her legs and hooked one around his waist. “Going to have to catch me first, sir.”

Phil didn't pounce or lunge forward, but he eased down. 

The moment he slipped inside her, Clint caught her breath and held it. She let it out when he pushed forward then pulled back. Her hand tangled in his hair and she pulled him in for a kiss, slow and steady as his strokes. Just as dirty too. It didn't stay tender for long and soon Phil was fucking her hard enough to make her press her hand against the headboard, bracing herself for them. 

“Harder, fuck, harder or I'm telling Alvarez about your Hostess stash in that file cabinet in medical,” Clint had a hard grip on Phil's shoulder and her heel was pressing against his ass.

“Blackmail will not get you orgasms, Francis.” Phil bit her shoulder and slammed into her twice more, pulling and pushing Clint over with a scream. She squeezed her eyes tight and she felt the hot slide of a tear disappearing into her hair.

Phil barely managed to push in once more before coming with a soft sigh against her neck. 

“Liar. Check your pants, I'm sure they're on fire,” Clint mumbled stroking a hand through his hair.

Phil bit her breast, tonguing the bough of branches under it with a reverent little lick. “I love you, you smart ass.”

“You better, sir. Or I'll put an arrow through you,” Clint mumbled and swirled a heart over and above the scars on his chest. 

“I'll make a note.”

Clint smiled and hid her face against his neck and laughed.

They laughed.

+

The next day was more of the same except for a small break in the morning where Clint and Phil both needed showers, food, and coffee. The order was inconsequential aside from the coffee. 

The rest of the team was indulging in Cultural Sensitivity Saturday Brunch. 

Clint wandered in barefoot with her shooting sunglasses on and dressed only in a pair of Captain America flag and shield panties and Coulson's dress shirt, with the tie used as a headband.

There were no catcalls, but Natasha just smirked and held her hand out.

Six crisp twenty-dollar bills were laid across her palm.

“Your team is full of miscreants, sir,” Clint mumbled with her face buried in her first cup of coffee.

Coulson sighed and wrapped his arm around her waist. He had the presence of mind to pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt (They detoured to his room. Clint still claimed it was to christen his bed as well. And his floor. And to defile his desk.) before wandering into the gossipy lion's den. “I know. You could probably shoot them.”

Clint handed over her cup to him and shared her coffee. “Yeah. I definitely could.”

The noise rose around them when Darcy accused Natasha of insider trading and then Pepper correcting the actual definition of insider trading. Bruce and Steve decided to not take sides and Tony was clutching his cups of coffee close in case of mishap. Pepper was trying to mediate and Thor was happily eating from everyone's plates. 

“These cakes with the tiny pockets are most delicious!” 

“Natasha, please put away the gun.”

“Darcy! Darcy! No! Don't you! Biting is not fighting fair!”

“WHO PROGRAMMED THE LAZY SUSAN WITH PROJECTILES?”

There were soon lines drawn and the battle was underway with food and weapons being pulled. Clint rested against Phil's side and kissed his shoulder. “Wanna go back to bed?”

Phil grabbed a plate of muffins on their way out and they locked themselves up in Clint's room for the rest of the day.

The sounds of battle and laughter rang out loud.

It was crazy and loud. It was home. 

And it was hers.


	6. I've got your eyes wide (The Epilogue)

There were quiet days. There were days when the world wasn't blowing up around them. The world gave them rest, but not without the occasional chunks of time when they all thought they would not last to see the daybreak again. Nearly indestructible humans, genetically enhanced soldiers, men who flew in suits of circuit boards and metal, a god, and a possibly genetically souped up redheaded Russian assassin were still susceptible to being worn out. 

Worn down and used up.

Clint kept watch. It was what she did. She watched her team flourish and falter and at times she was part of either force. 

Her back wasn't pressed against a wall now. She didn't need more than a steady voice in her ear and a hand steadying her back where she once needed walls. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't.

Her life wasn't.

Their life wasn't.

It was full of death and destruction and life and chaos and laughter and and and...

“Your face,” Coulson said touching her elbow, scanning the bruises on her cheek and another purpling along her jaw.

“Not my face, sir. That's an elbow,” Clint said smirking and nudging him slightly. Her steps were slightly off, broken ankle and cracked ribs, but she was making it to Medical on her own power. She counted it as a win.

Coulson rolled his eyes and she stopped in the hall, at the junction of two arteries of human traffic. “Hey,” she leaned in close, forehead resting against his neck. “We got them, sir. All of the bad guys lost. We won.”

“This time, Agent,” Coulson said, voice mild but Clint has had years now to read the nothing and the something in Phil's voice. 

Clint breathed in deep, her eyes were shut. She didn't need them right now to see Phil and hear him. He smelled like gunpowder and badly burned coffee and adrenaline sweat. Under the smells of the job, Clint found the sharp spice of Coulson's faded cologne and the smell of their laundry soap. Phil smelled like home and safety and security.

A long time ago now, Clint had traded all of her red numbers for this. She was just slow on the collection.

“This time,” she said and tipped her head up to kiss his chin and then his mouth. It was soft and a 'hello' and a 'still here' and a 'you're being an idiot' kiss.

Phil's lips curved up, quirking just so and Clint answered with a snort of laughter. “Sneak me out of medical?” She added a very calculated flutter of lashes and pouty mouth.

The hand at her back was strong and steady, steady as her draw was. There was less tension in his arms now. “Not on your life, Agent Barton. Do you even know how much paperwork I'd have to deal with if you skipped out on Alvarez?”

They walked slowly and steadily, Coulson taking her weight on her bad side, toward the end of the hall. They turned the corner and kept on, hands held tight together. Destination found and set.

Like a bird touching down to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is who I picture as girl!Hawkeye Georgia Moffet However, if you have a different face to go with girl!Hawkeye please feel free to send me pictures of people. 
> 
> All these flora and fauna are related to Artemis/Diana the goddesses of the Hunt.  
> [Cypress](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cypress)   
> [Artemis- Fauna](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artemis#Fauna)   
> [Amaranth](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amaranth)   
> [Chrysanthemum](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chrysanthemum)   
> [Asphodel](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asphodelus#Mythology)
> 
> Diana factored heavily in how I wrote the story and all the “symbolism.” It's how my brain works, sorry?
> 
> And these are the lyrics to the song that the story takes both story title and chapter titles from. 
> 
> The Huntress by The Echoing Green
> 
> you're in my headlights  
> With nowhere to run  
> And i'm the huntress  
> And i'm getting my gun  
> I've got your eyes wide  
> This is so much fun  
> And we've just begun
> 
> And when we dance  
> I'm bringing hell in a dress  
> And with a glance  
> I'll leave your heart in a mess  
> With every word i've got a lie to confess  
> Your eyes are so committal  
> This might hurt a little
> 
> You take the worst of me  
> And just make it seem like hell in the way  
> You break the best of me and  
> Just shake the rest of heaven away
> 
> This thing that we've become  
> Might seem like love to some  
> All the lies you've fed to me  
> They leave me standing empty  
> With nothing to say
> 
> And like a cross  
> You give the weary a rest  
> And like a vampire  
> I take it right in the chest  
> And every chance  
> I'm putting grace to the test  
> And i feel so numb
> 
> It's such a tragedy  
> This violent love affair with vanity  
> Every stupid promise is a fallacy  
> I'll make you settle for less  
> Your end has come

**Author's Note:**

> Now with an artist rendition of girl!Clint by Mads
> 
> http://madsskills.tumblr.com/post/30146292606/genderswapped-hawkeye
> 
> Thank you for your wonderful drawing ;)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bringing Hell in a Dress (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/514496) by [greeniron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeniron/pseuds/greeniron), [thegirlthatisclumsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlthatisclumsy/pseuds/thegirlthatisclumsy)
  * [The Huntress Series [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/519677) by [greeniron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeniron/pseuds/greeniron), [thegirlthatisclumsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlthatisclumsy/pseuds/thegirlthatisclumsy)




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